


Lights! Camera! Action..?

by TheHumming6irdWrites (JustAnotherCumberfictionFangirl)



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Accidents, Actor Tom Hiddleston, Angst, Awkwardness, Ballroom Dancing, Car Accidents, Clumsiness, Developing Friendships, Don't faint... Humm wrote a tall ofc!, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Games Nights, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Multiple Timelines, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Tom Hiddleston, Physical hurt, Platonic Bed Sharing, Prizes for anyone who notices the significance of the chapter titles..., RADA Tom, RADA Tom is my fictitious interpretation, Rugby, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Social Awkwardness, Warning: i intend to incorporate every overused trope in this wee tale!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherCumberfictionFangirl/pseuds/TheHumming6irdWrites
Summary: I'd love to tell you that the first time I met Tom Hiddleston we instantly became the firm friends that we are today.I'd love to. But that, of course, would be an outright lie...A/N: This is a work of fiction. The majority of scenarios come from my silly little mind although you'll find the odd sneaky little quote or titbit from an interview. While there will be some scenes which are based on reported events, poetic license has and will be used in bucket loads. All other character's are fictitious, with the exception of the Hiddleston's (and by extension their close acquaintances), but ALL characters are completely my own interpretation and not intended to offend.





	1. Unhappy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Set initially in 2002, but told - in part - as flashbacks. Hopefully it will make sense! <3
> 
> (p.s. this is my first time writing in first person pov so please forgive any mistakes!)

 

If you were to ask me now why I _ever_ thought a six-hour drive through the night - on what was, up until that point at least, the most important day of my entire life - was ever a good idea, I would struggle to give you anything approaching a plausible answer. 

But, in my naive little 20-year-old brain, I'd  _thought_  that I might just have had it all figured out. 

The route finder had told me it was just over five hours drive from my tiny village in the middle of the Lake District, down to central London. Given that I was embarking on this journey in the dead of night, on icy February roads, I had gone so far as to whack another couple of hours on...  _just in case_. I couldn't afford to stay in London the night before and lateness was my bête noir, so I wasn't taking any chances. Any extra time would be used to grab a quick snooze, a leisurely breakfast, go over my application one final time and then I’d embark on a brisk walk from the car park to clear any lingering cobwebs from my sleep deprived brain so that I'd be firing on all cylinders. 

Because I absolutely. Could. Not. Screw. This. Up.

At least that had been the plan.

And it had gone without a hitch. All the way until I'd reached the outskirts of London. There had been a 3-car pile-up on the M6. Then I’d missed the exit for the A41 not once, not twice, but  _three_  bloody times! Finally, I found myself within the vague vicinity of my destination, and, labouring under the optimistic assumption that nothing else could  _possibly_  go wrong, I realised that unlike Keswick - where I'd grown up - there were a lot of one-way streets in London. 

Like _a lot_ a lot! 

By the time I'd finally reached Gower Street, I was a frantic, sweating mess. It was ten to nine and I still hadn't found anywhere to park. I didn't dare try to find the multi-story I’d originally planned on using. That was at least a fifteen-minute walk away, or several stops on the tube. Besides, a soft flurry of snowflakes had begun to descend from the grey sky and having been labouring under the great British fallacy that 'the south' was  _always_  much warmer than the north, I'd only thought to wear my brand new power suit, bought especially for this auspicious occasion. Desperately I made another rapid circuit of the roads surrounding my destination, praying for a miracle - or even better - _a free parking meter to use_ \- when suddenly my prayers appeared to have been answered. 

I watched from my rear-view mirror as a sleek silver Mercedes pulled out from an elusive parking space practically outside the entrance to the building I was supposed to be in - _pretty much right now_ , I noted as I glanced panic-stricken at the clock on the dashboard. My heart was beating frantically. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it around the block without someone beating me to that coveted parking spot. My only option was to cheat. 

With a cursory glance in my mirrors, satisfied that no approaching vehicles were close enough to offer any competition, I hastily put my battered Fiesta into reverse and slammed down hard on the accelerator, my sleep deprived brain working in slow motion as I fleetingly registered a flash of neon orange passing behind me. 

A flicker of neon orange that had been closely followed by a resounding thud. 

Immediately I slammed on the brakes and froze.

 

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

 

I didn't see any bollards. And I  _definitely_  couldn't afford car repairs in central London. Or anywhere else if I was being truly honest.

With shaking hands, I switched off the engine and opened my door just enough to poke my head out, peering down at the road behind. 

I saw nothing unusual, but I knew I'd definitely hit _something_. Or possibly worse...  _someone_. 

Taking a gulp of frosty air, I stumbled out of the car, walking precariously in my unaccustomed heels, and on shaky legs towards the boot of the car. And immediately froze.

 

_Oh fucking fuckity shit shit!_

 

My worst fears were confirmed when I saw the same garish shade of orange that had momentarily caught my eyes only seconds earlier, covering the upper half of a long, lean body lying prostrate and entangled in amongst a pile of spokes and chrome on the icy pavement. 

 

And that was how I first came to meet Thomas William Hiddleston. 

 

_To be continued..._


	2. Panic

 

You would think the second time I came face to face with Tom Hiddleston would be distinctly less awkward, right?

_Wrong…_  

It was only marginally less traumatic. For me at least…

Though it had long been my dream to move to the capital to study at one of the most prestigious theatre schools in the world, the reality of leaving my friendly little town, where everybody knew everybody's name - _though also their business -_ was daunting to say the least. 

I'd insisted on making the move alone, figuring it was as good a time as any to exert my independence and get used to the idea of _finally_ spreading my wings. My brothers, all three of them, had been unbearable of course. After my _unfortunate_ incident back in February, they’d wanted to drive me down themselves, but it had been Papa who'd had the final word, and Nick, Gabe and Leo had finally relented, but not before sending me on my merry way with a rape alarm, a box of pepper spray - _which I was almost certain was illegal!_ \- and a list as long as my arm of things to be wary of in ‘the big smoke’.

Because apparently I was gullible. Personally, I preferred to think of myself as trusting. 

This time around went without a hitch. There were no traffic hold ups. I knew  _exactly_ which exit to take off the motorway. I knew which road to take to get to my rented student accommodation, situated less than 5 minutes’ walk from where I would be studying, and had even arranged for my flat key to be delivered to Keswick prior to leaving _, just in case_ I got stuck in traffic, and so I didn't even need to bother with registration. 

In short, I really _had_ thought of everything this time. 

_Or so I'd assumed._

 

Staggering up the three flights of stairs with the first of several boxes of books, I made my way along the worn parquet floored corridor to the shared flat that would soon become my home for the twelve months. 

As I reached number 27, I heard both male and female voices inside and took a deep breath, trying to suppress my nerves as I prepared to meet my new flatmate. After all, they say you only get one chance to make a good first impression, and I wanted to start off as I meant to go on. Confident, smiley and friendly.

Sadly, as I pushed the door open I immediately froze, all attempts at fake bravado dissolving away at the sight before my eyes.

Stood gazing expectantly at me from across the small lounge-cum-kitchen were three faces. Two women - one younger, the other older - and a man.

I recognised _his_ face immediately of course. How could I not have? After all, you tend not to easily forget the face of someone you run over.

Sadly, he'd also remembered my face. _So much for concussion and loss of memory!_

“Mum… Emma… This is the woman who ran me over...” he announced in a matter-of-fact manner, as if it happened to him every day.

I would later learn that our paths had first - literally - crossed on his birthday!Which, in hindsight, might go some way to explaining the look of sheer contempt that then flashed across the two women's faces.

 

***

My first thought on seeing the man lying on the ground before me had been… well... 

_Oh_   _crap!_

I realise now that it hadn’t been the most useful of thoughts. Certainly not helpful to the man lying on the ground.

I’d quickly shook that away and tried to think logically. The man wasn’t moving. At all. His impossibly long body was laid out, face up, the polished chrome frame of his bicycle covering him from the waist down, the front wheel still spinning maniacally. The less said about the crumpled rear wheel was probably for the best. 

_Crap!_  

Nope.  _Still_  not helpful. Well at least he was wearing a helmet I unhelpfully deduced, before scrambling to my knees, oblivious to the way my uncomfortable emerald shift dress had hiked up my thighs and my opaque tights were snagging against the rough kerb. 

I frantically began searching for any sign of life. And immediately wished I'd paid much better attention to all those episodes of _'ER'_ I used to watch. 

People say that when confronted with an emergency, instinct kicks in. Sadly the only thing kicking into me was guilt. And a rising sense of panic. Vaguely remembering something about checking airways I stared for the first time at my victim's face. And immediately regretted it.

He looked young. Possibly even younger than myself. A lurch in my stomach made my kneeling body waver, and I had to gulp back a sob at the thought that I might have extinguished this young man's life simply because I was too bloody self-centred and lazy to drive around the block for a parking space. 

But then I saw what appeared to be a flicker of hope. 

There seemed to be whispy tendrils of mist coming from his nose, but - _I gulped_ \- no obvious signs of movement on his pale, chiselled face. His thin lips were pressed firmly together so I couldn't even be one hundred per cent certain he was actually breathing. 

Frantically I looked up and down the street, wheezing out a hoarse cry for help. Nothing. Not a single person nor car. It was almost as if I was in a waking nightmare, the once busy road suddenly deserted. Except there was definitely an unconscious man lay before me.

And I _still_ had absolutely no clue how to even begin resuscitating him.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

Should I start CPR or something? _Not that I’d had the first clue back then how to correctly perform CPR..._

I couldn't be sure that he wasn't breathing though. Surely it was better to be safe than sorry?

Blindly, and with fumbling fingers, I bent forward to the zipper of his hideously bright orange puffer jacket and tugged, immediately chastising myself for disrespecting his fashion choice. It wasn’t as if I was some style guru after all! Besides, there were much more pertinent things I should be thinking about right now. Like trying to keep him alive! So… maybe if I saw his chest? I don't know exactly what I _expected_ to actually deduce by seeing under his jacket of course? A cardboard sign perhaps, saying ' _Start chest compressions here'...? A note from his mum saying, 'If lost, please return to...'?_

But then I caught sight of his lips again and panic gripped my already thumping chest. His still pursed lips were turning a queer shade of blue!

_Oh double crapping shit!_

Without another moment of hesitation, I bent my head forward and planted my lips soundly on his, exhaling the breath I'd been unconsciously holding in. I prayed I was doing 'it' right - _and that I hadn't eaten that bag of cheese and onion crisps in the car earlier._

‘It', of course referred to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and _not_ kissing, which I very swiftly realised was what in fact seemed to be happening!

But hang on a damn minute. _My_ lips weren't the ones moving...

Pulling frantically away I realised the man below me  _was_  in fact alive. Alive and now staring up at me, his wide limpid blue eyes dazed and most definitely looking at me in confusion, his pink tongue slowly trailing over his now parted lips. 

It occurred to me then that I had not only physically assaulted this cyclist, but he was now looking at me as if I’d just sexually molested him. And frankly, he didn't look impressed with either of those things!  What’s more, it was blatantly apparent that I now had a  _lot_  of explaining to do, and I  _definitely_  didn't have time for much of that given the fact that I was probably _already_ late for the most important interview of my life so far.

_(In retrospect I admit this might have sounded rather selfish, but for the life of me, right at that moment, I honestly couldn’t have told you which was the most unsettling)._

My lip inexplicably began to tremble, and tears started to trickle down my ruddy cheeks before I even realised the man still hadn't said a single word.

He was, however, on the move. His long limbs started to wriggle underneath the weight of the bike frame and he winced as he gingerly extended his arm, which appeared to have borne the brunt of the impact.

Attempting to pull myself together, I started choking out an apology, my sniffling sobs making my voice even shakier and high pitched. But it quickly turned to indignation as the very same extended arm suddenly gripped mine harshly.

“What the fuck did you do that for?! You could have bloody killed me!”

His voice, deep and cultured but rife with anger cut just as quickly through my bubbling indignation and the tears came in full force.

I knew I had no right whatsoever to deserve any pity.

He was absolutely right. I could have killed him. But my unhelpful brain could only come up with the lamest excuse of “I'm really late for my interview. I can’t miss it! I’ve been driving all night and I need this place!”

“Well I'm _so_ sorry for holding you up!” He hissed sarcastically “You'd better go then! I'd hate for _this_ to have all been for nothing!" he gesticulated at his bike and sneered "Go on. I'll live… I guess.”

I stared incredulously at the man through teary eyes and was actually shocked to see his expression change to one of pity.

Oh God! _He_ was pitying _me!_  

“I... I can't just leave you like this!” I gasped out, desperately trying to compose myself.

“Look, it seems senseless to screw up your interview on account of this. It sounds important. I'm alive, aren’t I? The bike can _probably_ be repaired...”

I looked dubiously at him. As if to pacify me, the man untangled his legs further and tentatively stood, wincing slightly - much to my mortification - as he dragged the bicycle onto the pavement. 

We both stood for a moment, staring at the mangled metal mess, my own eyebrows furrowed as he inspected the not so insignificant damage. 

“Let me at least give you my details, I'll pay for the repairs” I mumbled guiltily, wondering even as I said the words where I would find the money to pay for them.

He eyed me closely, seemingly deliberating my offer before nodding slowly, another wince darkening his gaze as he extended his neck.

“Okay. But go get that interview out of the way first. I was serious. I don't want to be held accountable for your future happiness or otherwise because of a split-second lapse in judgment. Karma can be a real bitch. I don’t want yours on my hands!”

Reluctantly I left him leant up against the wall, glancing back once more before I reached for the door and repeated, “You'll wait for me, so we can sort this out properly, won’t you?”

When he nodded and looked down at his battered bike I immediately felt stupid as to think he'd be going _anywhere_ anytime soon.

“I really _am_ sorry...” I mumbled again, looking away before the tears started afresh and pushed the door open.

“Yeah…” he sighed as he flicked at a layer of chipped paint “Me too…”

 

***

_He hadn’t waited though_ … 

When I returned to the scene of the crime, just over two hours later, he had vanished as if into thin air. I walked up and down Gower Street searching for him, but the only evidence that any accident had even taken place was another dent in my already dilapidated Fiesta, and a parking penalty notice stuck to my windscreen.

_Fuck! In all the hoo-ha I hadn’t even put money in the parking meter!_

Well, I mused as I drove back home, I guess _that’s_ my penance, seeing as I had no way of being able to contact my victim. The chances are I would never see him again. London was a city with millions of inhabitants after all.

For a time those events really niggled at me. I felt terrible: wondering if the stranger was still in pain; how much the bike had cost to fix; whether he ever thought of me, the lunatic who almost killed him; and why he’d just disappeared.

But as winter turned to spring, and the pristine white envelope dropped through my letterbox confirming my acceptance to RADA’s prestigious Technical Theatre and Stage Management Foundation Degree programme, my thoughts turned to more pressing matters.

Like the fact that I was finally going to be moving away from the oppressive memories here in my little town. That I might actually be able to do something for myself for once. Be a different version of me. The _real_ me who had been hidden away for so very long. No longer the awkward girl who towered over almost all the boys her age. No longer the girl who those same boys stayed away from in case her over-protective brothers came after them.

Moving to London was meant to be the start of a new chapter.

Which is why, discovering there had been an unholy mix up with my gender – _someone not bothering to double check my application form and simply assuming ‘Joey Carter’ must be a guy so assigned me a male flatmate_ – had well and truly put a spanner in the works.

Of course, I was so ridiculously optimistic, that for a fleeting second I actually dared to hope that the younger girl stood alongside my ‘victim’ might be my flatmate. But no. Of course she wasn’t. That would be far too simple now, wouldn’t it?

No. It looked like I was going to be sharing a flat, at least for the foreseeable future, with the man I’d almost killed.

 

_To be continued..._


End file.
